The Winning Book

I was scared of reading the Nobel novels
Scared, might not get a thing
wondered how he thought it be
the flow of the river, the sway of a tree
pondered how he put it on
a loved song, a dance at dawn
would every read end a dread
or a loving sweet memory instead.
I learned it then from my folks
who read and read round the clock
“Wouldn’t spend again on a winning book-
cause the mighty time last time it took.”
And hence I dismissed without demur
each fat book I saw for the bookworm’s tour.
 But, of course the march of time
poured in me, many thoughts sublime.
The gift of writings a Nature’s boon
that ends with the fall of men pretty soon.
Yet, to their eyes they are all alike
but put differently as they might like.
I only gathered it all when
to me the sword was weaker than the pen
and my fret to read the victor novel ceased
when I summoned guts and finally read , pleased
That he thinks equally how it would be-
the flow of the river and the sway of a tree.  
And the lovely song rings on and on
mingles, with the dance at dawn.